


The End of the Journey

by lwise2019



Series: Mikkel's Story [54]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Series: Mikkel's Story [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536739
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	The End of the Journey

It wouldn't do to return with his hand dripping with blood. That was a little too literal for him. Mikkel rubbed it in the clean snow, trying to stanch the blood at least for a while, and forced it back into the glove, already sticky with drying blood.

Back at the bunkhouse, he found that Reynir had laid out his clean clothes beside the shower stall, and he gratefully deposited his befouled and smelly clothing for the other to launder while he washed up. He took the left glove and the pendant with him into the shower as there was no need for the Icelander to deal with his blood. He hung the pendant where it would not get wet; after he'd gone to the trouble to give it a blood-offering, he really shouldn't wash the blood away.

His hand was still bleeding after the shower so there was no help for it; he poured alcohol into the wound and bandaged it.

“You're missing a glove,” Reynir pointed out, puzzled, as he came out in his clean, dry clothing. Mikkel handed over the wet glove in silence. “Hey, there's a hole – you're hurt!”

“Trivial,” he answered curtly, returning to his usual place to stand watch over the team. The other wisely dropped the subject and returned to scrubbing clothes.

Emil woke after an hour or so and came over to the table. Leaping to his feet, Reynir brought him two cans of tuna fish, opening them after a glance at Mikkel for permission.

Starting on the first can, “Don't we have anything else?” Emil grumbled, looking at the can with distaste.

“Nothing but soup.”

“I'd rather starve … or keep starving … rather than eat any more of that.” He took a few bites, looked speculatively at Reynir, again working on the laundry. “Didn't you say we could eat the useless one if we got hungry?”

“Indeed. But I'm afraid the authorities know we have him, and they would certainly have questions.”

“They know we _had_ him, but they don't know what's happened since the radio broke. You might have lost him along the way.”

“Very true.” Mikkel eyed the Icelander thoughtfully. “Sigrun would go along with us … Lalli's the problem, though. We couldn't tell him the cover story.”

“He'd figure out, I'm sure. He's pretty smart.”

“Hmm. I'm afraid, however, that he might have some qualms about murder and cannibalism.”

“I suppose.” Emil heaved a theatrical sigh and addressed himself to the tuna fish.

Emil returned to his bunk, grumbling a bit at its condition but quickly falling asleep again. Lalli woke, consumed a couple of cans of tuna fish without complaint, crawled back into his nest under Mikkel's bunk.

“I guess he feels safe there,” Reynir commented. “He feels like you'll protect him.”

“I will,” Mikkel answered with absolute conviction.

The Icelander looked up at him, blinked, turned back to his task.

Sigrun woke, sat silently on her bunk. After several minutes Mikkel, concerned, came to her side. “Are you all right? Are you feeling feverish? Are you feeling … drained of strength?” Asking the troll-hunter if she felt weak did not seem to be a good idea.

“I'm fine, big guy, don't fuss. It's just that … it's hard to believe they're really here. I feel like it's a dream and I don't want to do anything to make it end. I just want to sit here and see them … alive.”

“I understand.” He returned to his post.

After a while, Reynir had cleaned and hung up all the clothing and was looking about for something to do. Mikkel studied him thoughtfully.

_He needs to understand orders from Sigrun and Emil even if I'm not available to translate._

_Wait, what am I thinking? We're going to Iceland and I'll hand him over to the loving embrace of his family, and Lalli to Onni's … well, not loving embrace, if I understand Finns correctly, but at least Onni's company. Then I'll take Sigrun home to Norway and Emil home to Sweden, and we'll probably none of us ever see each other again._

_He doesn't need to understand orders._

All the same, “Sit, Reynir. I'll teach you some Danish.”

Mikkel did not teach conversational Danish. He taught _useful_ Danish, phrases such as “Get behind me” and “Run for your life!”

And so the day passed, and everyone fell into bed early, exhausted by the grueling journey in Emil and Lalli's case, and by the emotional stress in the case of the other three. Mikkel lay awake, listening to Emil snore and the breathing of others coming slow and regular in sleep. At last he picked up his blanket, crossed the room silently, wrapped himself up, and lay down across the threshold.

He slept, and his dead left him in peace.

* * *

A week passed while Mikkel kept watch by day and slept across the threshold by night, the others in their various ways recuperated from the journey, and everyone except the kitten suffered through the tuna fish.

The quarantine ship came for them at last, a cargo ship that happened to be in the right place with sufficient quarantine facilities. The paranoid Icelanders had decreed a four week quarantine in individual glass-walled cells with virtually no privacy.

And the food was even worse than Mikkel's cooking.


End file.
